Kidnapped
by Rosea
Summary: Our favorite rogue is back. Amanda has been kidnapped, George and Darcy must team up to find and rescue her. Can they stop arguing for long enough? In the "An Honourable Man" story line. Rated for some violence.
1. Chapter 1: Lost

Greetings fans of our beloved rogue, this is for those who hinted rather strongly that they wanted more George fic. Enjoy.

I don't make any money from this, it is but for the love of Wickham that I write it, no infringement to Pride and Prejudice or Lost in Austin is intended (or Sharpe, for that matter).

**Kidnapped- A Lost in Austen Fanfic**

**1. Lost**

Darcy staggered through the gathering gloom, his mind on one thing only. His step faltered, pain shooting through his shoulder, regained his footing and stumbled on a few steps before his foot caught on an exposed root and he measured his length on the stony ground. He tried to climb back to his feet, but the darkness which had been intruding on the edge of his vision overwhelmed him. He collapsed back to the ground, his consciousness fleeing from the pain, the fear and the guilt.


	2. Chapter 2: Found

**2. Found**

George pushed the hood of his heavy oilskin coat back and examined the landscape. Low, twisted shrubs, distorted by the constant swirling winds dotted the ground which was rocky in places, and boggy in others. Outcrops of fantastically wind sculpted rock gave the misty moor an unworldly, almost imaginary feeling, as though gleaned from the deepest recesses of nightmarish dreams.

The shreds of mist lying in hollows and floating around the outcrops made it difficult to examine the ground from horse back, so George dismounted and studied the ground, looking for any trace of his quarry. A footprint, already filled with water to form a small pond, marked a boggy patch. Further on there was another. Broken twigs, torn from their parent plant marked a man's passage through them. George followed the traces, leading his white horse deeper into the desolate moor.

The tracks were clear for several yards, the foot prints unevenly spaced and faltering, then disappeared as the bog gave way stone and for a moment George despaired. His heart lifted again, if only momentarily, when he saw a foot in a shred of mist. He quickly went to the fallen man and turned him over. He moaned as he was moved.

"Darcy, you are a monumental fool," he muttered as he checked the semi-conscious man for injuries.

Darcy's face was bruised, his lip split and a long graze down one cheek bled sluggishly. What was more concerning, however, was the bullet in his shoulder.

"That was meant to end your life," George told him as he pulled out his large, clean handkerchief and folded it into a pad. He pressed the pad against the wound then re-buttoned Darcy's waistcoat over it to hold it in place, "But you, being a stubborn, arrogant, bloody minded bastard wouldn't just lie down and take it, would you, or, for that matter, seek help before rushing off onto the moor with no idea where you were going or what you were going to do when you got there."

"You talk too much," Darcy said, his voice slurred and wavering. His eyes opened and he looked up at his rescuer. "What are you doing here, Wickham?" he demanded, his voice stronger and more certain.

"Saving your life, for which, by the way, you're welcome. Come on, on your feet."

George helped Darcy to his feet, but as soon as he was upright, Darcy tried to shake him off and head into the growing darkness in a completely random direction. George grabbed hold of him and held firmly. Darcy tried to swing a blow at him, but only succeeded in knocking himself off balance and almost bearing the both of them to the ground. George hauled him back upright.

"Let me go, Wickham," Darcy snarled, "I have to find her."

"You wouldn't stand a chance, you damned fool," George said, "You're hurt, it's almost full dark, and we can't see more than a few yards in this fog. Come back to town, we'll get you some help and come back in the morning."

"It could be too late by then," Darcy said, trying once more to free himself.

Irritated, George whirled Darcy around and twisted his good arm up behind his back, and with his other, injured arm of little use, Darcy was incapacitated.

"If I have to knock you over the head and carry you back to town, I will do so," George said in Darcy's conveniently accessible ear. "Now, are you going to come quietly or not? Either way, you will come."

"Damn you, Wickham," Darcy said, but George could hear the resignation in his voice.

"It's a bit late for that," George said, "Now, get on my horse."

It took some effort on both their parts, but Darcy was eventually seated on Wickham's handsome white mare. George took the reins and led her back to the road. Like Darcy he wanted to rush off into the mists to find Amanda, but he could see it was a pointless endeavour.

The mist was closing in and only George's excellent sense of direction allowed him to find the road, the boggy ground giving way to hard surface of a road first constructed over a thousand years past by the Romans. He stepped onto the gravel and headed off towards the distant town, his horse following faithfully, her hooves clopping on the road.

"How did you find me?" Darcy asked after a while as he clung to the saddle.

"The coachman came belting into town mid afternoon," George said, "He was babbling about bandits and said that Mrs Darcy had been kidnapped and you had been shot. He said that he tried to help you but was knocked out and by the time he came around you were gone too. He told me where it had happened, so I came looking. I hoped to find Amanda, but found you instead."

"I am heart broken that I disappointed you," Darcy said acidly. "What were you doing in that town anyway?"

"I was posted here two months ago. The factory owners are having trouble with Luddites attacking the factories and damaging the machines so we were sent up here to try to bring some law and order."

"They were fools if they expected _you_ to bring order to anything."

George stopped and turned to Darcy, "I just saved you life, Darcy," he said, "I don't expect gratitude, but you can keep you insults to yourself."

Darcy had the good grace to look abashed. "You're right, I apologise. I'm worried about Amanda."

"So am I. Why do you think they took her?" George asked as he took up the reins again. It was almost dark and he wanted to get to the town as quickly as he could.

"Ransom, I suppose," Darcy said. "You have spent some time here, who do you think they are?"

"There has been talk of a group of outlaws in the hills who have been causing trouble, using the Luddites attacks as cover to steal whatever they can lay their hands on. No one really knows who they are, but they have all the farmers and a great many of the townsfolk terrified," George replied. "I've been hunting them for weeks and although I haven't found their hideout, I have a reasonable idea where it might be."

"Do you think that that is where they have taken Amanda?"

"Most likely. Once I've got you settled, I'm going to look for her."

"I'm coming with you," Darcy said instantly.

"No you're not," George answered flatly. "I have to get you to a Doctor to get that bullet out, then you have to rest. Being shot is not something you get over with a couple of hours sleep."

"You're not going without me," Darcy said, "She's my wife."

"Don't you trust me to find her?" George asked lightly, "Or do you not trust me to treat her with honour?"

"I don't trust you at all," Darcy snarled.

"Some things never change." George heaved a heavy, set upon sigh, "I suppose that the moment you can walk you'll head off again and need rescuing again. Very well, you can come with me, but don't get in my way."

Darcy glared at him, but there wasn't much more he could say.

They reached the town an half an hour after sundown, glad to see the lights blazing outside the inn, the Coventry. Darcy was fading badly by this time, and George was glad that he had paid a boy to watch out for them and run to the Coventry to inform the landlord. The landlord, his wife and one of the young men who worked there came running out to meet them and helped George ease Darcy down off the horse.

Once Darcy was safely installed in the best room in the inn with the local doctor in attendance, George went down to the tap room, a map in hand to study the surrounding countryside. The moors were unknown to all but a few farmers and shepherds who were brave or foolish enough to chance loosing their flocks in the marshes for the benefit of the lush grass between the stony outcrops. There were no modern roads and few buildings that were any thing more substantial than shepherds' huts. There were, as he had been told by one particularly frightened man who had had his flock stolen by the raiders, the ruins of an old abbey or maybe a castle somewhere in the moors, long since swallowed up by time and the elements. The tale interested George, for he was fairly sure that the raiders would use such a place as their hide out.

He was joined by his second in command, a reliable man who, like him, was a veteran of the war against the French in Spain. Most of his men had little real military experience and had either been drafted into the local militia or were idle rich boys playing at soldiers and having a good time before they married. A military title and decoration of some kind were, they had been told, quite irresistible to young women of good standing. William Fletcher, on the other hand, was a career soldier who had taken a militia posting as a kind of retirement from the front lines and was happy to serve under George rather than take a desk job.

They retired to a private corner, away from pricked ears and discussed George's plan of attack until the doctor came down from attending to Darcy. George went to meet him.

"How is he, Doctor?"

"He will recover swiftly," the Doctor said, taking the glass of brandy that Fletcher offered and knocking it back with the ease of a practised drinker. "The bullet was lodged under his collar bone, but it did not hit his lungs and missed any major blood vessels, and since the man has the constitution of an ox, I doubt there will be any difficulties."

"That's a great relief, Doctor," George said, "Thank you. I will see that you are paid generously for your services."

"You know the gentleman?" the Doctor asked, raising one eyebrow. The pay of a militia man, even an officer, was not very high and they usually bargained over every penny.

"He and I have been acquainted almost since birth," George said, "I can promise you he will be generous."

The Doctor nodded and put down the glass. "I will return in the morning to check on his progress, but in the mean time I would not advise any strenuous activity."

"I will try to prevent him from exerting himself, Doctor," George said, "but I don't know if I will succeed. Once he has his mind set upon a course of action, nothing will deter him. Is he able to take visitors?"

"I have given him laudanum for the pain, and he may be sleepy."

"All the better," George said with a feral grin. He went up to the best room where Darcy was sitting in bed, his shirt draped over his shoulders, one shoulder swathed in bandages.

"How are you feeling, Darcy?" George asked as he pulled a chair beside the bed.

"Like I have been shot," Darcy said with less venom that he may otherwise if not doped to the eyeballs.

"I need some information. How many men attacked you?"

"I think there were five," Darcy said.

"At least one of them had a pistol, what about the others? How were they armed?" There was no levity in George's voice.

"Two had muskets- I heard them fire just before we stopped. The others all had pistols and swords from memory."

"Do you remember if they looked well maintained?"

"What difference does it make?" Darcy asked, "They were all armed."

"You have shot muskets and rifles before, you know the difference between the performance of a well maintained piece and an ill kept one with a rusty mechanism. It could make all the difference in a fight."

"They were well enough maintained, but you will understand that I had other things on my mind at the time. They were holding us up!"

"True." George started out the window for a moment, his mind working while his eyes looked at nothing. "Five men. Mounted?"

"Yes."

"This doesn't sound like the work of opportunists. Let's assume that they knew the route you were to take and they were waiting for you. Who knew that you were coming this way?"

"Everyone at Pemberly. You aren't saying that one of my own people betrayed me?" Darcy exclaimed.

"Don't be ridiculous," George scoffed. "It's at least three days in a coach and four from Pemberly to North Yorkshire. Where did you stay along the way?"

"At inns," Darcy said.

"And did you discuss where you were going with anyone?"

"The coachman would inquire with the landlord about the condition of the road ahead for the next days travel," Darcy said, "As you would expect. Wait!" Darcy held up a hand to prevent George from speaking while he chased down a memory. "This morning when we set out, our coachman Fitzgerald said that we would take another route, a longer one as he was told the road ahead was impassable due to rain. I was not pleased but Amanda told me to..." he trailed off, a faint flush across his face.

"What did she tell you?" George asked, intrigued.

"She told me to put up and shut up," Darcy said.

George burst out laughing.

"It is no laughing matter, Wickham!" Darcy snarled.

"I do apologise," George said, still snickering. "I think that we have found our leak. You were sent into a planned ambush. Well, there is nothing more we can do tonight. I doubt that whoever attacked you would hurt Mrs. Darcy, she is quite valuable to them as a hostage."

"The thought of my wife in such danger!" Darcy groaned.

"Well running off into the fog wasn't the smartest thing you could have done," George said. "At least I found you before you died of exposure and blood loss."

"Damn you Wickham!" Darcy snarled.

George gave him a sunny smile. "Get some sleep, Darcy, you will need all your strength if you are going to come with me tomorrow." He left before Darcy could throw anything at him.


	3. Chapter 3: A Dangerous Man

Authors note:

A quick note for those who have read Sharpe. Bernard Cornwell used a character called George Wickham in _Sharpe's Justice_, and he is very much the P&P Wickham. I am completely ignoring that because my dear, wonderful, heroic, self sacrificing, loveable, misunderstood, wonderful (oh, I already said that) George wouldn't be that much of a bastard. So apologies to Bernard Cornwall and all the other Sharpe fans out there, I mean no infringement and lay no claims to royalties and so on, I'm just borrowing him for a good time, likewise darling George and all the other characters lifted from P&P and LIA.

**3. A Dangerous Man**

Darcy looked up from his breakfast as the door opened, admitting George Wickham. He stared at George for a few moments, wondering what he had done to himself. His smart red and white uniform, polished riding boots and bi-corn hat were nowhere to be seen, instead he was wearing dark trousers, hardy, thick soled boots, a long, dark brown leather jacket over tan shirt and brown vest and a slightly battered wide brimmed black felt hat which cast a shadow over his face. His sword, instead of hanging from the usual white leather baldric, was attached to a belt which also held a sheathed knife, pistol and cartridge pouch. He looked… dangerous.

"Glad to see you are looking better," George said, dumping his armload on the spare chair. "How is your shoulder feeling?"

"Better," Darcy said, "The Doctor extracted the bullet and sewed the wound closed. He said I should rest for a few days."

"Which of course, you are going to do," George said, "I was joking," he added when he saw Darcy's face go stony. "I brought you some clothes."

"I am well enough equipped, thank you," Darcy said coldly, offended by George's flippant manner.

"Well enough equipped for riding around in coaches or having tea in civilised parlour, but not tramping across the moors," George said, "Do you have any weapons?"

"I have a pair of pistols," Darcy said.

"Good, make sure they're loaded and you have plenty of ammunition, these people are dangerous."

"They are scum."

"Scum can be more dangerous than anyone else," George said, "They don't respect your wealth and rank, in fact it makes you more of a target. Don't underestimate them."

"I suppose that you have a great deal of experience among their ranks," Darcy said scathingly.

"Yes, I have. I spent almost two years with the scum of the Earth in Spain," George said, not taking offence, "And I found among them some of the best and worst people I have ever met, but at least they were honest about what they were. I'll wait for you down stairs."

He stalked out of the room, he didn't like to admit it in front of Darcy, but the man drove him wild with fury almost every time they met, even after the issue with his sister had been cleared up to everyone's satisfaction. He went down to the tap room and checked his gear. He felt like he was going into battle with the skirmishers again and the old sense of excitement and danger was coming back.

He heard a footstep behind him and shocked even himself with the speed with which he drew a knife out of the back of his belt and spun into a defensive crouch, the knife held ready for attack or defence. His friend observed him with a satisfied expression.

"I see you haven't forgotten everything I've taught you," he said.

George put the knife away. "I've had to rely on it more than expected. You'll follow on tomorrow?"

"Leave a trail, and I'll be there," he said. He vanished silently into the darkness and George returned to his gear.

He owed his friend everything. If it hadn't been for him, he wouldn't have survived in Spain. His friend had taught him to track over rough terrain, load and fire a rifle four times in a minute, scout enemy territory without being seen, fight with bayonet, sword, knife, hands, feet, knees and head, and the best places to hit to immobilise a man. Darcy would no doubt be horrified by George's hard won skills, deeming them utterly ungentlemanly and more suitable to a back street brawler than an officer in the King Militia.

George had learned that when it came to staying alive, gentlemanly rules had no place and he was more than happy to fight dirty if necessary. George finished checking his gear and loading it around his person, completing his task just as Darcy walked down the stairs. George raised an eye brow slightly when he saw his unwanted comrade in arms. Darcy was still being a gentleman, with cravat neatly tied, a freshly pressed white shirt, immaculate waist coat and jacket and his long greatcoat over the top of it all. At least he had had the good sense to wear dark colours and boots rather than elegant shoes which would be ruined in moments.

"Are you ready to go?" George asked.

"I am," Darcy said.

"Good, the horses are in the stable yard waiting for us. I've made arrangements for enough food for four days, that should be more than enough, but there isn't any room for luggage," George said, although he had noticed that Darcy was not hauling along the half-expected portmanteau. "We travel light and fast. Have you got your pistols and plenty of cartridges?"

"I have," Darcy said.

George nodded, "Let's go."


	4. Chapter 4: The Moors

**My thanks to my very good friend Ten_Mara for beta reading, correcting my grammar (never my strong point) and pointing out plot holes.**

**4. The Moors**

There were two horses in the yard outside the stables at the back of the inn, both saddled, both carrying a pair of saddle bags and a rolled up blanket behind the saddle. George's saddle also carried a rifle in sheath under his right knee.

"Where's your grey?" Darcy asked, looking over the pair of well built roans.

"She's too conspicuous," George said, "She'll stand out like a beacon on the moors."

"And your men?" Darcy looked around as though he expected to see half a regiment of soldiers forming up behind them.

"Arrangements have been made," George said, "A troop crashing through the heather would attract far too much attention. We will have support when we need it." _Providing all goes as planned_, he thought privately.

Darcy didn't look happy with the situation, but George's manner did not allow for argument.

George swung easily into his saddle while Darcy was forced to use the mounting block in deference to his injured shoulder. They didn't speak as they rode, George didn't really know what to say that wouldn't precipitate an argument, and he knew Darcy preferred silence when he wasn't dressing someone down. George was gracious enough to admit that Darcy was holding his tongue well, not saying anything derisive since their altercation over breakfast.

"How is Mrs. Darcy adapting to her new role as lady of the manor?" George asked as they left the town, the sharp ring of hooves on stone turning to the clop of hooves on packed earth. He was trying not to dwell on the possibility that the woman he had come to admire was still alive and well and covered his concern with banter.

"She has scandalised Georgiana and most of the staff, but we are adapting well enough to each other," Darcy said evenly. Anyone who knew him would think he was unconcerned that she was missing, but George knew him better. He could hear the undercurrent of fear and concern in his voice.

George chuckled a little at the idea of Amanda scandalising the staff and the rigid Fitzwilliam Darcy having to adapt to a woman with such strange habits and a unique way of looking at the world. "She is a woman of great fire and passion," George said, trying to bring something more from his surly companion. "Quite unlike other ladies that you must have known, say, Miss Bingley. Your life together must be quite interesting."

"My life, Mr. Wickham, and that of my wife, is no concern of yours," Darcy said sharply. "I apologise, my reaction was uncalled for." Despite the apology, it was clear that he did not wish to talk about Amanda with Wickham.

"Darcy, I care about her too, and I would see her happy. You have the chance to do that, I never did. I know that she is your wife, and that she is not for me, but that does not mean that I do not wish to know how she is."

Darcy's suspicious glower softened a little. "Life with Amanda can be... exciting."

George grinned at the pause, reading all the words that were not said. "I can imagine," he said lightly. "Have you obeyed Lady Catherine's instruction to quit society?"

"To a large extent," Darcy said. "I find that endless house parties, soirees and elegant dinners no longer hold the attraction they once did. I am content with overseeing the estate and enjoying the company of a few good friends."

George raised an eyebrow. So Lady Catherine's plan had backfired. Instead of dissuading her nephew from marrying such an unsuitable girl she had given him a reason to excuse himself from activities George knew bored him. "That mustn't be easy since Mr. Bingley went to America."

"I have other friends and find that Mr. Bennet is good company when I wish for someone more intellectually inclined," Darcy said.

George was glad that Lady Catherine hadn't thrown them out of Longbourne in a fit of pique. "He's a good man. Has he quite recovered from his injury?"

"Yes, I am pleased to say he is and in good spirits. He tells me that you cared for him most solicitously while I was … away."

"I did my duty to a friend." George didn't say that he had taken every opportunity since to visit Mr. Bennet and that his friendship with the older man was growing. He did, however, try to avoid Mrs. Bennett. The woman had learned of his reputation and while she was bound by gratitude to him for caring for her husband and bringing him safely home, she did not consider him fit company for her daughters. It didn't really bother him; he had no intention of wooing any of her daughters, despite her fears. A single day in Lydia's company had demonstrated to him that she would not be able to keep up with him.

"You have not visited Pemberly since the events of my engagement," Darcy said.

George turned a puzzled glance on him. "I did not think that I would be welcome."

"As you have pointed out in the past, Permberly was your home too. You may visit when you wish." The words were dragged reluctantly from Darcy's mouth.

"Mrs. Darcy made you say that, did she not?"

Darcy scowled at the grin on George's face. "Yes, she was most forceful. But Wickham, stay within propriety."

"Of course," George said with society politeness.

He still wished that Amanda had chosen him, but he had known from the start that it was not to be, her heart was set on Darcy, even if she hadn't realised it. That hadn't stopped him from playing with her, and not entirely for her own benefit, he enjoyed being a puppet master. Being a manipulative bastard was a bad habit, true, but one of the few pleasures he was determined not to give up, not yet anyway, and at least she had come out better off for it.

He knew his motivations were far from pure. He had helped Amanda Darcy, then Miss Price, in the hope of landing himself a wealthy heiress as a wife. It hadn't worked out, Caroline Bingley had seen right through him and played him with as much skill as he played her. When they both realised they were involved in the game as equal players, they laughed about it and parted on friendly terms.

He still wondered, every now and then, what her motivation was, she certainly wasn't swayed by his charm and seemed to have little interest in men.

The day grew progressively greyer as they returned to the place where the Darcys had been ambushed, Amanda kidnapped and Darcy shot.

It had rained overnight, but the ground was churned up enough to leave traces of their presence. George slid down off his horse and examined the tracks. They were leading in the exact opposite direction to the one Darcy had taken the night before. There were the imprints of men's boots and horses hooves in the mud and a line of widely spaced smaller footprints leading away from the fight. George followed them for a few yards until they were intersected by hoof prints. If he read the traces correctly, Amanda had run this way then been swept off her feet and onto a horse. The horse turned and joined at least four others heading off into the moor.

He raised an eyebrow at Darcy, who glowered back at him. "This way," he said, pointing away over the moor. He didn't add anything about Darcy's complete lack of sense of direction, he didn't need to; the man had read it in his expression. _Score one to me_, George thought and then wondered when he had started scoring points off Darcy. _Probably when Amanda came to me after Darcy threw her out. He can be such a prude_.

Rain started to fall lightly on the pair by mid morning, making the horses snort and Darcy's face become more and more stony. George ignored him and just pulled up his hat forward and kept his eyes firmly on the ground, seeking out rapidly vanishing traces of the kidnappers. Rain was dripping off the brim and onto his shoulders and George was sure that if this kept up for too long he would start to feel the first traces of dampness through the layers of leather and wool. It didn't really worry him; a little damp was nothing to get in a fuss over, but it didn't mean that he liked it.

He was, however, concerned about Darcy's wound. He glanced over at his companion. "How is your shoulder?" he asked.

Darcy grunted and shifted it a little, wincing as he did so. "It will be well enough."

"Don't try to be difficult, Darcy," George said, "I know from experience that if your wound is trouble, I need to know about it so I can plan for all eventualities. If you hide it from me and we get in a fight, I might overestimate your abilities and that could get us both killed."

"I can use a sword if I must," Darcy finally conceded. "But you are correct, I will not be able to fight as well as I may otherwise be able. I may have to rely on you," he said with supreme reluctance.

George raised an eye brow and gave himself a smile of glee. Darcy caught sight of the smirk and bared his teeth in a silent snarl.

"Is it really so hard to have to concede a point?" George asked innocently.

"I don't like having to rely on anyone else, Wickham, especially you."

"Don't take life so seriously, my friend," George said. "You're only allotted a certain amount of it and when it's all said and done, don't you want to look back and say that you had a good life?"

"My duty is my life. Amanda is my life," Darcy said. "When that day finally comes I will look back and say that I have done right by my friends, my family and those who depend on me. What will you see when you look back, Wickham?"

"I will see a life I have strived to enjoy as much as possible without inconveniencing too many people," he said. "You never know, I may even be able to say that I have helped a few." _Amanda for instance, _he thought, _after you kicked her out. You didn't think of that, did you Fitzwilliam? Come on George, be fair, _he chided himself, _you haven't exactly tried _not_ to get a bad reputation over the last few years._

"A few good deeds don't make up for a life of dishonesty and debauchery." Darcy sniffed. His more amicable mood had been washed away with the rain and he was back to his unpleasant, surly self. How on Earth did Amanda put up with him when he was like this?

"That just shows how little you really know about me, Darcy," George said, stung by the unfair accusation that went far beyond what he felt was his due as a reputed cad, "Stop looking at the world through your own narrow window and see it for what it really is. It's not that horrible a place when you get to know it." He stopped himself from elaborating on his experiences with the best and worst the world had to offer. Darcy had a bad habit of creating a silence that others felt compelled to fill, and in those unguarded moments it was far too easy to speak his mind and that could well get him into a world of trouble.

"I do not wish to know your world, Wickham," Darcy said, "And I don't want my wife to know it either."

"Do you really think she doesn't already know?" George asked. "You told me what her world was like, the world in the future, and I don't think that someone like Miss Price would survive without being able to take care of herself."

"I suppose not," Darcy said. He was staring blankly off into the distance, looking at a time and place utterly alien to this barren moor. "It was truly awful, but even so, there was an energy there, a life to the city that I have not felt here, in our world. Maybe if one lived within it, you could learn to love it."

George still wasn't entirely sure that he believed Darcy's story about stepping into the future, but he was willing to entertain the notion. The place had drawn itself so vividly in his mind by Darcy's description that he yearned to visit it, to know what it was like, to taste, smell and feel that life.

He shook his head, bringing himself back to reality. He had been living the soft life far too much these last few months and he was losing his edge. He had to keep his eyes open, stay aware of his surroundings, if he drifted off into a fantasy world they would be in trouble. Tearing himself away from the dream world Darcy had drawn in his mind he turned his attention back to the task at hand- find Amanda, rescue her and make her kidnappers pay for abducting her.

By noon the tracks had been all but erased, but George had a fair idea where they were going. The kidnappers hadn't expected to be followed into the moors, so had headed straight for home instead of laying false trails to throw off any pursuers. If George had been in command of them he would have torn strips off them for their carelessness, but since he wasn't he was glad of their laxity.

They ate in the saddle and kept going onwards, deeper into the moors. George glanced at Darcy from time to time, concerned about the effect the travelling was having on his wounded companion. Years seemed to slip away and suddenly he was back in Spain, in the depths of winter, when the weather was utterly miserable, the troop were all wet, moral was at it's lowest and there wasn't the slightest hope that they would be able to get warm and dry in the foreseeable future. For a moment Darcy became Tom, his friend, riding silently, nursing a cold, his usual bright manner dimmed by misery.

_There's forty shillings on drum,_

_For those who volunteer to come_

_To fight and win the war today_

_Over the hills and far away..._

He started humming to himself, remembering a time when he was Lieutenant George Wickham, respected officer of His Majesties Army in Spain.

Damn, he was drifting again. He pulled himself back to the moors, the England, to the present. _Concentrate George, you have to rescue Mrs. Darcy__. Pray God she's all right_. The part of George which admired her spunk made him add, _pray God she hasn't hurt anyone_.

By early afternoon they were well into the moors and away from any trace of civilisation. The landscape was bleak and unforgiving, low, rocky hills with marshy ground in the valleys which forced George and Darcy to keep to the ridge lines, much against George's desires. They could see a long way, but then anyone who was watching would also be able to see them.

One good thing was that the rain had stopped.

"I can't possibly see what would entice anyone to come into a God-forsaken area such as this," Darcy said with distaste when they passed the remains of a broken-down shepherding hut.

"Harsh necessity," George said. "Life isn't easy when you don't have any money. People must make their living where they can. There are a lot of people out there who have to scrape for every morsel they put on the table."

"If I didn't know better, Wickham, I may think you a revolutionary," Darcy said.

"You may be right. I know a lot of people who exist only to work themselves to death for the likes of us," George said. "We live in comfort, they live in poverty. We sneer at them because they are coarse and common, but do we give them a chance to be better?"

"Good God, what a dreadful idea. You can't seriously suggest that the rabble should rise above their station? Next thing you will be suggesting they should rise up and slaughter us in our beds," Darcy said, only half jokingly.

"Of course not," George said, then realised that he had just provided Darcy with a great deal of ammunition should be wish to make life difficult for him. He cursed himself silently. He really should learn to watch his tongue; it was far too liable to get him into trouble at unguarded moments. "And I would be obliged, Mr. Darcy, if you would not repeat what I have said to my superiors, I would find myself out of job very quickly."

Darcy said raised an eyebrow at him. "You revolutionary sentiments will stay locked forever behind my lips."

George nodded, but didn't quite believe him.

"I see you mistrust me," Darcy said, interpreting the doubt in George's gaze correctly. "I can promise you I will not speak of your views, as they are also shared by my beloved wife. She has on numerous occasions, admonished me to provide better for those who look to me, often in the most passionate terms."

George couldn't help the laughter that bubbled out of him. He could well believe that Amanda Price would not turn into a subdued lady of the manor who attended to her sewing and genteel good works in the local community, she had far to much passion and fire to be content with that. He just hoped that Darcy wasn't making her life miserable by rebuking her and forcing her to conform to his standards.

"And have you?" he asked.

"I have had little choice in the matter. A charity school has been opened in the village and a teacher found for the village children. Both Amanda and my sister spend time there. Amanda has also convinced me to place a doctor in the village that any may visit at my expense. To be honest, I think that given the opportunity, she would try to change the world on her own," Darcy reported.

George laughed again. He didn't doubt that Amanda would try.

* * *

><p>If you are enjoying, please let me know, otherwise my plot bunnies hop off to graze elsewhere.<p> 


	5. Chapter 5: Ambush

This is for Alverongrl who nagged me for it, thank you! Also further thanks to my beta for pointing out plot holes.

Time for a bit of action.

**5. Ambush**

George's laughter was cut off by a couple of loud gun shots and a blood thirsty yell as the landscape around them erupted. Musket balls ploughed into the turf as the horses reared in surprise. George felt the wind of one ball brush past his ear.

Half a dozen ragged men surged out of hiding and ran at them, howling like wild beasts. Darcy whipped his two pistols from his belt, expertly controlling his frightened horse with his knees as he took aim and calmly shot two of the men running for him. Both men were dead before they hit the ground.

George swung off his horse and was on the ground in moments with his weapons drawn; a pistol in one hand and his sword in the other. He always felt more at home fighting on the ground than on a horse where his movements were limited and he had to keep part of his mind on controlling the beast. He was angry at himself for letting his guard drop enough to be ambushed and let his fury out. Within moments one attacker was dead on the ground with a bullet in his heart and a second had been cut down with a single deadly lunge. Of the remaining two that were focussed on George, one drew a rust spotted sword and swung at George while the other tried to make a panicked break for it. George ducked a swipe at his head and threw aside his pistol, drawing his dagger as he parried the returning blow. The speed at which the man executed his move told George that his attacker had had some training in weaponry, but he was by no means a practised swordsman.

They traded a few quick blows, with which George assessed his opponent's fighting style. He was fighting like a skirmisher, with little finesse, but a lot of determination. George had met men of this type before; those who became good at fighting survived, those who did not died quickly on the battlefield. This man was good, but not good enough. He overextended himself, and George slapped away his blade with his sword and thrust his knife up under the man's ribs into his heart. The man gave him a surprised look, then, as blood bubbled from between his lips, he sagged to the ground, his open eyes glazed in death.

The man who had tried to flee had been bailed up by Darcy and was cowering between the stamping, snorting horse and a large rock outcrop at his back. George wrenched his knife out of his assailant's body and went to inspect the prisoner. He laid a calming hand on the neck of Darcy's horse as he passed by, muttering soothing nonsense words to the animal. None of the bodies lying in the dirt showed any signs of life. He sheathed his sword but kept his knife in his hand.

"Keep your eyes open," he said quietly to Darcy, who was still perched primly on his horse and had a far better view of the surrounding country than George did. "There may be more of them out there."

Darcy nodded silently, his eyes sweeping back and forth across the barren hills.

George grabbed the man by the collar and hauled him upright, slamming him face first against the rock and holding him there while he patted him down in a quick search, but the man's only weapon was already on the ground at his feet. George kicked it aside, turned the man around and pushed him back against the rock, his still bloody knife at the shaking man's throat. "Who are you?" he demanded harshly.

"Please, I didn't want to do any of this," the man begged frantically. "Please, sir, don't hurt me!"

"Who sent you?" Darcy said coldly from behind George. He had a quickly reloaded pistol pointed at the man. His horse stamped and snorted again. Its steel shod hooves thudded against the churned up ground.

Faced with two heavily-armed, stony-faced men the ragged attacker fell to bits quickly.

"I'm sorry," the man sobbed. "It was Oliver, he said that if I didn't join him he would kill my wife and my children. Please sir, I'm just a shepherd... I didn't want any part of this!"

George looked the man in the eyes, the looked him over. He didn't look like a fighter; he looked more what he claimed to be: a shaggy headed, roughly garbed shepherd, one of those who kept their flocks on the moors and lived day to day in the crude huts that dotted the desolate place for months on end.

"Who is this Oliver?" George asked.

"He's taken over the old monastery, the one to the south, he's kidnapped people for ransom, he says that England owes him."

George released the man who slithered down the rock to huddle miserably on the ground.

"That sounds like the one we're looking for," he said to Darcy. "He's the one who has taken Amanda, and I think he's the one I have been sent to find."

"Then we should find this monastery with all speed," Darcy said. He glared contemptuously at the man at his feet. "We shall bind this man here, and come back for him when we have completed our mission, his action demand harsh punishment."

"No, we won't," George said. "We're letting him go."

"We will not," Darcy said firmly.

"We will," George shot back equally firmly. "On one condition."

"C-condition?" the man stuttered.

"What's your name?"

"H-henry," the man said. "Henry Carter."

"Well, Henry, there is a man following us, he will be here by sun up. You will guide him the rest of the way to where Oliver is hiding," George said.

"Do you truly believe that you can trust this man?" Darcy sneered. "He will run off the moment you release him. He is not to be trusted."

"Why? Because he's poor?" George asked. "Listen to me now," he said to the shepherd, "You said that if you went against him, Oliver would threaten your wife and children."

"Aye, that's right, sir, he did," Henry stammered, "He said that he would kill my two little girls in front of me and make me watch as he.. as he..."

George held up his hand, the man didn't need to go on, he had enough imagination to figure out what he meant. "Then you have two choices, Henry," he said. "You can do as I command and we will ensure that your wife and children are safe and that there are no repercussions for your actions, or you can run off or run back to Oliver and when we catch you - and you will be caught - you will hang."

"He chose to side with these brigands, he deserve all that the law will give him," Darcy objected.

"Be quiet, Darcy, this is my decision."

Surprisingly Darcy didn't answer.

George gave him a hard look before turned back to his shaking prisoner. "Well?"

"I will find your friend and show him the way," the shepherd said.

"Good, tell him George Wickham sent you, and make sure he knows your name. If he can't tell me your name when I ask him, I will have you hunted down with all the others. Where is Oliver's hide out?"

"It's not far from here, maybe six miles," Henry said, "To the north west. It's on a rise."

"Defences?"

The man looked confused.

"Is there a wall around it, an intact wall? What about guard points?"

"No, the wall has collapsed, but there is a tower where the gate house used to be. Oliver uses the old rectory and some of the outbuildings are still standing," Henry said, babbling out information as fast as he could. "He only has a couple of men on guard, but they're mostly drunk."

"Excellent," George said. "Now get out of here." He released the man who fled, running in the direction George and Darcy had come from.

George picked up his discarded pistol and went to his horse, checking it over for wounds. Thankfully the roan was unharmed by the excitement. He patted its neck gently and swingung easily into the saddle.

"I do not hold your assurance in this matter," Darcy said. "The man was in the company of those who abducted my wife, he is a criminal. "

He turned a cold eye on Darcy. "Would you really stand by and let a man rape your wife to death if, by your own actions, you could stop it? Even if it meant getting down off your high moral horse and doing something you despised?"

Darcy said nothing, there was nothing he could say.

"I thought not," George said, "This man loves his wife and his daughters as much as you love your wife and just like you he would do anything to protect them. He could see no way out, we have given him a way and he will take it."

"How can you have such confidence in such a man? He will run back to this Oliver and tell him we are coming."

"Do you think he doesn't already know? These hills could harbour a dozen spies we would never see. The only chance we have is to get to his fortress before them and retain some element of surprise."

"Your shepherd will be the first to report back."

"Unlike you, Darcy, I have spent a considerable amount of time among the 'lower orders'. Most of the King's soldiers are made up of the poor, the dispossessed and the desperate. Most of them are decent people, but even decent people will do terrible things if there is no other choice." He knew only too well what sort of terrible things a man could and would do when backed into a corner. "Just because they are poor doesn't mean that they love any less, they just have fewer options when it comes to getting out of trouble. I gave that man an option."

"Would you extend that option to any of these virtuous poor you meet?" Darcy said scathingly.

"Why, Mr. Darcy, what a miserable opinion you have of man kind," George replied in that light, mocking tone he knew Darcy hated. "What would Amanda think?"

"Do not bring my wife into this discussion!"

"Why not? She is what all this is about, after all."

"This is not a topic I wish to explore further in this time and place, Wickham," Darcy said with quiet venom.

"I'm sure it's not," George said, filing it away for future discourse. "And no, I wouldn't offer the same choice to anyone we meet. There are those in this world who thrive on the pain and suffering of others, you can tell who they are the moment you look in their eyes." He shuddered, remembered those eyes and how he had been helpless before them. "They are the vermin we need to clean out, not the ones who make a bad decisions for the right reasons."

Darcy was quiet for several minutes. George could almost hear him thinking, he just hoped that his thoughts lead him to a more equitable frame of mind.

"And who is this man who you say is following us?" he asked after a while.

"An old friend. We may need help and I trust this man with my life," George said. "Come on, I want to get to see what we're up against before we lose the light."


	6. Chapter 6: The Abbey

There are plenty of ruined abbeys and monasteries in the UK, all because a certain king wanted a flippin' divorce.

I've modelled this one off Rievaulx Abbey- a Cistercian Abbey in Yorkshire. Most of these places are complete ruins, so mine is utterly fabricated. I do realise that most abbeys and monasteries were built in valleys rather than on hilltops; call it artistic license. (I'm also mucking about with the standard layout of an abbey, if you're interested you can research Cistercian abbeys and PM me to point out where I have made changes, or not as I would prefer, I already know!)

I will also say in advance that I am no expert on the vegetation of the Yorkshire moors or any other moors. I've visited Cornwall, the Peak District, Lake District and Scotland, but didn't get to Yorkshire, so if there are any readers out there who live in that area, I beg your forgiveness if my imagined landscape isn't accurate.

Again, thanks to Kristen_Mara.

**6. The Abbey**

George and Darcy made excellent time following the trails. The men who had ambushed them either hadn't had much clue about how to hide their tracks or they weren't trying. The outlaws may not have expected anyone else to get this far.

It was close to dusk when George and Darcy spotted the old abbey. The building was in ruins after more than 200 years of neglect since the dissolution of the monasteries by Henry VIII, and it was sad to see the state of the once grand building.

"We need to leave the horses here," George said as he dismounted. "If we get any closer with them we're going to be seen in an instant."

Darcy nodded and swung down from his horse. George observed him wince as he put strain on his wounded shoulder.

"You should stay here," George said. "I'll go and scout the area."

"I'm coming with you," was the stubborn reply.

George took a deep breath to try to control his rising temper. "When's the last time you snuck anywhere?" he demanded. "You don't sneak – you announce your presence and demand that everyone take note of you. If you do that here, you're going to get us both killed."

Darcy's face set. "Amanda is my wife, I will see her safe no matter what the cost." His voice was cold.

"So will I," George snapped back. "And she isn't going to thank you if we rescue her only for her to have to take your bullet-ridden body back to Pemberly for burial. Trust me on this, Darcy- I want her safe as much as you do, and I know how to get around without being seen."

"Useful, I would imagine."

The rest of the words didn't need to be said; George could see them hanging unsaid in the air between them. He tried to make light of the insult, if only to retain his own temper. "Quite, just think of all those apple pastries we used to steal out from under Mrs. Simmons' nose. If I had had to rely on you, we would have gone hungry nine times out of ten."

Darcy's face softened a little in remembrance of their time as children, when they were carefree and great friends. Before time and status pushed them apart. "As I remember it, you got caught as well."

"Yes, but I knew how to talk my way out of trouble, and most of the time came away with more than a snatched turn-over." Very good, he had distracted his companion away from concern about Amanda, at least for a little while. "Trust me, I spent a lot of time learning how to be a scout in Spain; I can get in and out without being seen. Anyway, you need to rest, you've been shot, remember?"

Darcy nodded. "Very well."

"Come on, we need to find a safe place to hide first," George said, revelling just a little in his small victory.

They tethered the horses and made their way on foot from one patch of cover to the next, drawing ever closer to the old abbey. Finally not too far from the main entrance they found a place which was sheltered and hidden from sight with reasonable cover up to the walls of the complex. The abbey was on the rise above them and the sheltering gully was hidden by a dense screen of rowan and hawthorn. Patches of hawthorn, hazel and field maple dotted the slope, providing cover for his approach to the rocky summit of the rise where the abbey was located.

"This should do," George commented. He popped up to have a quick look, and then ducked down again behind the scrub. "There are guards up there, but I think I should be able to get past them without too many problems." He checked that his pistol was ready and hoped that he wouldn't need it. If he had to fire it, that would bring every brigand in the place down on them. He would prefer to use his knife if he had to silence someone permanently. He just hoped that it wouldn't be someone who had no choice but to be there. "I should be back in an hour or so. Wait for me here and don't make any noise."

George crouched, ready to go when Darcy caught him arm. "George, be careful, and good luck."

There was genuine concern in his voice and George grinned back at him. "I will."

George dashed from one patch of cover to another, slowly climbing the hill. It wasn't particularly steep, but any hill provided a defensive advantage, even if it meant the structure above was subject to the biting winds which swept across the moors in winter. This area had had a turbulent history and the monks here would have been grateful for the extra safety provided by the rise.

They, however, would have kept the slopes clear. Time had provided him with the cover he wouldn't have had in the past. He reached the walls and pressed back against them, out of sight of anyone who might look over them. He stayed there for a few minutes, catching his breath, then started making his way around the wall.

The defensive structure had degraded over time. The ground over which he scrambled was dotted with fallen masonry which reduced the height of the wall from a maximum height of maybe 10 feet to five or six. In some places more of the wall had fallen and George had to duck to avoid being seen by a chance glance.

He made his way around the wall to the front of the complex and stopped, peering around the corner of the curtain wall. There was a man on guard at the main entrance. He was sitting on a piece of fallen masonry and leaning back against the wall, his musket across his lap. He clearly didn't expect anything to happen. The gatehouse tower was still mostly intact. The roof and the top of the upper story had gone, but if necessary it would be a defensible position. Making a mental note, George headed back the way he came to the first low point in the wall.

Another quick look to make sure that there wasn't anyone watching, then he was quickly and crouching behind the tumbled-down remains of what looked like a huge baker's oven. There were a few people in the yard, either going about evening chores at the well or the roughly built yard where a dozen or so horses were kept or the men were lounging about pretending to be on guard duty.

One side of the large space was dominated with the remains of the abbey's church. From the looks of it, the roof of the once-fine church had long since caved in and the glass was gone from the windows. There was no way that that structure was useable as living quarters or even safe to enter.

Beyond the church was the residential part of the abbey. What looked like the cloister was visible beyond a tumbled-down wall and beyond that was a building with lights shining from the windows and smoke rising from a hole in the patched-up roof.

George needed a closer look and ghosted around the perimeter of the yard until he reached the church. He felt a stab of regret as he moved silently through the shell of the building. The walls were still more-or-less intact and showed intricate carvings and mouldings and the remains of what would have been glorious stained glass windows. That any church, even a Catholic one, should be reduced to such a state was a crying shame.

Hiding behind a wall and peering through one of the many gaps, George was able to see into the cloister. The building directly across the cloister was in use, the rectory if his memory was correct; sounds of men talking and laughing came across the open space, as well as the smells of rough cooking. He wrinkled his nose at the strong scent of garlic. Who in England used that much garlic in their cooking?

Another building behind the rectory was also in use; George could see a guard on duty there. There were no lights coming from that building, but there was no point in guarding an empty building. About level with it, at the rear of the cloister was another small building under heavy guard. A building that small and attached to the transept of the church where the monks would have had their entry to the choir was probably the Chapter house, where the business of the abbey was conducted. The guard on this building looked like he was serious about his business. The armoury, maybe? Or maybe the prison?

The Church, the Chapter house, the guarded building and the rectory made up three sides of the open square of the cloister. The buildings of the fourth side which would have closed the cloister off from the worldly activities in the yard beyond had fallen and not been repaired, however the tumbled stones would make it difficult to get in and out of the cloister unnoticed. Rescue wasn't going to be easy, but there was plenty of cover. If they could get Amanda out in the dead of night without being heard, they might just get clean away.

George wanted to find Amanda there and then, but he had made a promise to return to Darcy first, and it would easier to slip her away unnoticed in the the night when the guards were sleepy and there were enough shadows to hide their movements. As silently as he could, he retraced his path through the church and back into the yard, around the edge of the wall, over and back down the slope.

As he made his way down he was concerned. That had been too easy. Surely Oliver knew that they were coming; shouldn't he have set sentries out to spot them? The ones that he had seen were all lounging around as though there was absolutely nothing to be concerned about. Something didn't add up. Maybe he should wait for his friends to turn up, that way at least he would have some backup if… when… things went wrong. He wasn't going to delude himself about Darcy playing the soldier and obeying orders from those who knew their business.

He slipped into the gully and made his way back to the hawthorn thicket where Darcy should still be waiting. He was still there, crouched and waiting for him. George gave a soft whistle to let him know a friend was approaching.

Darcy turned and looked at him. His eyes said it all.

"Oh no," George said softly and turned. He found Darcy's own pistol pointed straight between his eyes. He raised his hands slowly as other men emerged from the landscape around him, all armed to the teeth.

"Did you get a good look at our hideout?" the pistol holder said, grinning with a mouthful of broken teeth. "If you missed anything, you'll get another chance real soon."

"I knew this was too easy," George said as he was pushed to his knees and his hands were roughly bound behind his back.


	7. Chapter 7: Oliver

Chapter warning- violence and George- bashing, don't worry, he'll be fine.

**7. Oliver**

Darcy staggered along blindly, propelled by a musket butt in the back and unable to see the numerous objects which seemed to rise up to trip him at every step. He heard a door opening in front of him then closing behind afters he was thrust through. He was hauled to a halt stop by a hand on his shoulder and felt someone fall against him before being pulled away with a vile curse. Darcy drew himself up proudly despite the pain in his shoulder, his bound hands and blindfold.

"Ah, the visitors," a voice said. "Take the blindfolds off."

When Darcy was able to see again he glanced around quickly to get his bearings. The brigands were gathered in what had once been the rectory of the monastery. The room was dilapidated. It had with two doors and half- heartedly boarded up windows, but also had a well-made fireplace, the remains of painted frescoes on the most sheltered parts of the walls and a mostly-intact pulpit from which the preceptor would have read passages from the bible during meal times.

Now it was decayed, with a leaking roof, smoking fire and rough furniture. A rickety table with two chairs stood near the fire place, with the remains of a meal scattered on it, and another long table ran along one wall with a collection of bits and pieces strewn along it. The room was populated by a large man dressed in ill-fitting finery, another man in slightly less fancy clothing and a collection of men in common working clothes, some cleaning muskets and other weaponry.

One of their escort deposited George's sword, knife, pistols and Darcy's pair of pistols on the table. The well dressed man picked up one of Darcy's pistols and examined it appreciatively.

"Nice," he commented, checking it was loaded then slipping it through his belt. He turned his attention to Darcy and George. "Now, I am going to assume that you are Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy," he said to Darcy. "I didn't expect to see you wandering around on the moors with a still fresh wound, but you are welcome- it saves me the trouble of looking for you."

"And you, I assume, are the dog who kidnapped my wife," Darcy said coldly. "Where is she?"

"Such a charming young lady she is too, such a flow of language!" the man said with heavy irony. "Not the type of lady I would have expected such a wealthy, cultured man such as yourself to marry," the man said. "Allow me to introduce myself, you can call me Oliver."

"Very well… Oliver. Where is my wife?"

"She is quite safe, and as comfortable as I can make her in our rough company," Oliver said. The brigands gathered around snickered. "You'll get to see her if you cooperate."

Darcy felt a cold knot forming in his stomach. Surely they hadn't… Surely they wouldn't… "What are your intentions?" Darcy asked.

"Quite simply, _Mr_. Darcy, I want money, lots of money, and you will provide it if you want to see your wife again."

"You will get your money, when I am assured that my wife is safe and unharmed," Darcy said coldly., "Until then we have nothing more to say to each other."

Oliver gave a snide chuckle. "You are not in control here, _Mr._ Darcy," he said evenly., "You don't get to say when our conversation is finished or not. There is still a lot I want to know. For instance, who is your friend here?" He turned his sharp gaze on George. "His sword is an officer's sword, but he carries a knife as well, good for stabbing people in the back. Not what you would expect an officer of His Majesty's army to carry." He picked up the knife in question and toyed with it for a moment before going over and laying the blade against George's cheek. "Your name, sir, if you please."

George looked passed past the knife and fixed the man with an unflinching gaze. "George Wickham," he said without preamble or ostentation.

"George Wickham," Oliver repeated slowly, "Once of his His Majesty's Army in Spain."

Darcy was surprised; even George looked startled that this man would know him.

"You find my knowing you strange?" Oliver asked, amused by their reaction, "I know about you. Captured by the French, exchanged for a French Colonel. Not all of us in that prison were so lucky."

"If you were in that prison, you should know I wasn't at all lucky," George said evenly. "When were you released?"

"We escaped," Oliver said, "After the officers abandoned us, we had to take matters into our own hands." Around the room, three or four men chuckled. "My lads and I made our way back to England by ourselves. We fought for the King, we died for the King, and we were left to rot in that filthy prison while officers like you were ransomed or exchanged. Well, we figured that since we were the ones doing the actual fighting, we were just as valuable as you, and by God we will take what is owed to us."

"You deserted," George said scornfully. "You owe the King your loyalty."

"We don't owe the King anything," Oliver said, "And we don't owe you either."

He nodded to one of the men behind George who then kicked him the soldier in the back of the knee. George's leg collapsed from under him and he fell to his knees. Oliver drew Darcy's pistol from his belt and went around behind George, placing the muzzle against the back of his head.

"Stop!" Darcy cried, unwilling to stand by and watch while George was murdered in front of him, or for George to try something foolish and get himself killed.

Oliver glanced at Darcy, "Why? He's just a sword for hire- why would you care?"

"I won't stand by while you kill him in cold blood," Darcy said.

"I can promise you my blood is very far from cold," Oliver sneered., "His type left us to rot. Then again," he took the pistol away, much to both his captives' relief, "I will need someone to take a message back."

"What type of message?" Darcy asked.

"Your ransom. Your wife is only valuable to you, but you are valuable to a lot more people, Mr. Darcy. I can ask ten times the ransom for both of you, and you will make sure it is paid."

"How can I make sure the ransom is paid if you hold me here?" Darcy asked.

"Easily. All I need to do is send a letter and a token that I truly have you hostage and I don't doubt that your family will cough up without any hesitation." Oliver circled Darcy. "What should I take? A finger? An ear?"

Darcy stood stoically, staring at a spot on the wall, he knew that Oliver wanted him to beg for his life, but he would not give such scum the pleasure. Beside him, George shifted uncomfortably on his abused knee. Oliver struck like a snake, slamming the butt of the pistol against the back of George's head. George dropped with a grunt and lay still.

"George!" Darcy cried, unable to stop the word from slipping out, as his friend lay so still and lifeless. He took and involuntary step forward toward his fallen friend, but he was dragged back by the men at his shoulders.

Oliver latched on instantly. "So, he is a friend. Better and better. You will write a letter, Mr. Darcy, explaining our terms."

"I will not!" Darcy exclaimed angrily.

"Are you sure?" Oliver asked. He signalled to two of his men, who dragged the semi-conscious George to his knees and slapped his face until his eyes flickered opened and he started[stared?] blankly at his captor. Oliver grabbed a fistful of George's hair and pulled his head back. He slammed a fist into George's face, then hauled him back up again. He glanced up at Darcy. "I'll give you a couple of hours to think about it. Take him away."

Two men hustled Darcy out of the room through the inner door and down a corridor. Behind him, Darcy could hear the sickening thud of fist on flesh.

* * *

><p><strong>Authors note<strong>

My wonderful beta made a comment of "if you ruin his looks I will not be happy." Don't worry, any bruises/cuts/scapes are appropriately manly and heroic.

My history of George Wickham is pure conjecture, there was never anything mentioned about those two lost years in the book and they weren't mentioned in LiA, so I have given him a history which I hope to get the chance to write one day.

Thanks to those who have added this story to their alert list, it is nice to know its being read. If you like it/loath it/think it could be better (or worse), I would appreciate some feedback.


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